


When the rain washes you clean, you'll know.

by destielpasta



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Fix-It, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Memory Magic, Recovery, Surrealism, The Magicians Season 4 Ending Fix-It, Underworld, shade magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:19:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22327720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destielpasta/pseuds/destielpasta
Summary: Quentin breaks the train to the afterlife. Eliot tries to cast a spell. Things spiral from there.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 27
Kudos: 137





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You can never have enough fix it fics, right? Here's my take.

Quentin hummed Taylor Swift on the train. 

He had thought that the Underworld Express would be a step up from the subway, but the orange plastic seats and vague scent of body odor proved otherwise. Quentin was almost alone (a fact that separated it from the subway), with no one there besides him and one very stuffy looking train conductor in an old fashioned cap and double-breasted suit standing guard at one of the double doors. The guy was a pure caricature, with a bushy mustache as if the person designing this post-death experience only knew train conductors from The Polar Express. 

Quentin tried to guess what time period he was from. The 1890s? Maybe the 1980s? Or maybe his aesthetic was supposed to be ambiguous…

Anyway, he hummed Taylor Swift because it wasn’t like the conductor wanted to talk to him, and when he tried he only held a finger up to his lips. _Shhh, this train will reach its destination soon_ , he said in a weird whisper that totally would have freaked Quentin out if he still had anxiety about anything. I mean, he was dead, how could questionable behavior from a transportation expert really affect him at this point?

He was dead. 

He leaned back against the window, letting his eyes fall shut. A bad choice, apparently, since when he did that he saw a mug falling into a crackling fire (Would the fire melt the mug? He had been so proud of repairing it) along with his first edition Fillory book (ruined by Plover’s signature, but still) and a host of other sundries. It hadn’t been fun, watching his friends try to extract the meaning of his life from what little objects they had of him, as if since they couldn’t burn his body they had to burn his _stuff_ instead. 

Except for the peach– that hadn’t been his. Had never really been his, apparently. 

A chill crossed his neck where his skin was exposed. He opened his eyes, pulling his jacket around him. 

“Is it supposed to be cold as hell in here?” 

The conductor turned his head robotically and put his finger to his lips again. 

“Shhh… This train will reach its destination soon.”

Yeah. Definitely creepy. Maybe he’d try taking a nap again. He closed his eyes. 

Living Quentin probably would have questioned it. Living Quentin would have snooped around this train and tried to find what made it run and would have awkwardly poked at the conductor until he gave him answers but... he was Dead Quentin. Dead Quentin had fulfilled his mission already. He was a Hero. Dead Quentin would live forever as a monument to sacrifice and loyalty and– 

_Fuck._

He hadn’t even said anything to Eliot while he bled out on the forest floor. He hadn’t crouched down next to Margo and _enjoyed_ seeing him alive. Touched his face and laughed when he made some stupid near death joke. He hadn’t even freaked out at how hurt he was. And then the next time he had seen him– 

That _peach_ rolled into the fire, the flames licking at it. Where had Eliot even gotten one? He had just experienced massive medical trauma, possible abdominal surgery and a whole host of healing magic for sure. Quentin bit the inside of his cheek and shook his head because it hadn’t been _right_ , hadn’t been right for Eliot to be outside so soon after going through all that, worrying about Quentin being dead, worrying about finding a fucking _peach_ of all things for Quentin’s impromptu funeral– 

It was all wrong. 

“Stop.”

Quentin’s eyes shot open. The conductor was in front of him, bent at the waist and staring down at him with cold, empty eyes. 

“Shit– what the fuck–”

He spoke, in a deeper voice than before. 

“You are in doubt. You must _stop_ being in doubt.”

Quentin scrambled back in his seat.

“Doesn’t really work that way– sorry–”

The lights flickered, the conductor flashing in and out of existence. 

Quentin saw sparks, felt his own fingers meet his palm even though his hands were flat in his lap. A mirror, broken then fixed. He had done it so quickly, without thinking– why hadn’t he _thought–_

The train lurched, jerking him back. What had been a smooth ride suddenly felt like the Amtrak service from Albany to Penn Station. His teeth chattered in his head. The lights came back, brighter and hotter than they were before, and the conductor was closer to his face now, speaking louder and louder.

“You are in doubt. You must _stop_ being in doubt. You are in doubt. You must _stop_ being in doubt. You are in doubt. You must _stop_ being in doubt–”

The lights burnt out with a pop, plunging the train into complete darkness. The voice continued, an ugly, throaty shout, but Quentin couldn’t see him. The screeching sound of metal meeting metal wailed out from underneath them, as if the train were trying to jump the tracks. When it did his stomach swooped, and he flew forward. His hands flailed out, trying to catch his fall but it was a lost cause because he did fall. He fell and fell and fell and fell until– 

He hit the ground. The voice stopped immediately, and all was still. His ears rang, and he grimaced at the sting in his hands from the fall. But the ground was softer than he expected, gritty and dry dirt sinking under his fingernails instead of industrial metal.

He opened his eyes. Then closed them real quick because _the sun_.

It was blinding, and real. Oranges and reds swirled in front of his closed eyelids, and the heat warmed his face. He stood, blindly reaching out for something to support his increasingly dizzy body. Birds sang above his head and he heard the rough flapping of wings. 

He hands met the rough bark of a tree and he leaned his full weight against it, catching his breath. Closing his eyes. Just for a moment, just to get the world to stop spinning. 

The next time he opened them, it was dark. 

He was still in the forest, but the sun had gone down and night had fallen. His eyes were relieved, but the rest of him was on high alert. The birds were gone. It was like someone had flipped a switch and in an instant had fast-forwarded the day. 

Quentin took a deep, shaking breath. His heart beat beneath his ribcage, solid but fast. Had he had a heartbeat while he was on the train? 

He heard footsteps. 

He whipped around, looking for the source. The trees were still and the ground empty around him. He calmed his breathing and realized that the footsteps were distant, somewhere far away someone was traipsing through the forest like him. They called out, but it was so faint Quentin couldn’t hear what they were saying. It could have been the sounds of an animal. 

He didn’t want to find out. 

Moving, he put one foot in front of the other until he had put as much distance between him and the other inhabitant(s) of the forest as possible. 

Eventually, the forest started to thin out and become less the untamed wild and more the patch of trees between your house and a neighbor. Instead of dirt floor, his feet met a cobblestone path. Quentin’s heart beat even harder when he realized that he _recognized_ that path. 

He stopped, a soft sound filling the air. Music, maybe a guitar? 

He knew that sound. 

He took off down the path, underworld train and forest monsters forgotten. His feet slapped the stone and his jacket flew out behind him. 

He _knew_ that sound. 

When he came to the clearing, the stone wall that surrounded it, he stopped. Something wet and hot ran down his face. Tears. 

The cottage, the flower beds— the bed and the cobbled together furniture, the little blue door and the red shutters. It was all there. 

And sitting on the edge of the mosaic, plucking slowly at the guitar and singing a soft Fillorian folk song, was—

“Eliot,” Quentin said, finding his voice. He coughed, once, then again, feeling like he hadn’t spoken in years. 

Eliot looked up, not quite smiling, not quite frowning. He set the guitar down, standing slowly. 

“You came back?” He asked. 

Quentin nodded quickly, desperate. “Of course I did, I realized that I didn’t—“

Eliot cut him off, non-reactive, expression cool. “You left without letting me know, how was I supposed to know what’s going on in your head?”

Quentin furrowed his brow. Eliot’s response didn’t match up. 

“El I—“

“You don’t _have_ to do anything, Quentin. You’d have to _want_ me to know.” Eliot cut him off again. “Well, at least we both know what you want.”

Eliot looked at him expectantly, eyebrows raised, and it dawned on Quentin: he remembered this night. It had been after about a year and a half at the mosaic, after their Earth clothes had finally fallen apart. Eliot had told him that if he was going to live his life, that he should “live it here.” Quentin had turned it into a fight. He remembered kicking over a stack of tiles and stalking off, not returning until it was almost dusk. 

“Don’t look at me like that. Like you didn’t mean it,” Eliot said, responding to whatever past-Quentin had used as an excuse. 

Quentin swallowed, cold disappointment washing over him. The Eliot that stood in front of him was not the Eliot Quentin had left on earth, it was a memory. Might as well have been a ghost loop, and it would keep going whether Quentin played along with it or not. 

Memory Eliot cleared his throat, calling Quentin’s attention back to him. 

“Well? Anything? Cat got your tongue?”

Quentin sighed, rubbing the back of his neck and thinking. It was hard enough to remember what his past self had said fifty years ago, let alone with Eliot looking at him straight on. 

Eliot– not a monster with his face. _His_ Eliot, if there had ever been such a thing.

He dropped his hands to his sides, meeting Eliot’s eyes once more. 

“We’ve been here for almost two years, El,” he said, like an actor reciting lines. “You can’t think I’m just going to run away forever every time I need some space.”

Eliot crossed his arms, popping a hip back. Quentin tried to remember– if only his mind wasn’t so scrambled right now– Quentin had said something else, something that really pissed Eliot off. 

He doesn’t remember. He can’t believe he doesn’t remember. 

_I missed you,_ Quentin wanted to say in place of whatever bullshit past-him had spouted. _I missed you so goddamn much._

“I didn’t run away. _You_ did that,” Eliot said, uncaring about Quentin’s inner turmoil. He did that thing where he flexed his jaw and tucked his chin back to appear uncaring, when in reality he cared very much. 

“What are we even talking about? I didn’t run, I tried to say that I—“

Like clockwork, Eliot held up a hand. Quentin deflated. He had hoped that maybe in this version of the memory, Eliot wouldn’t cut him off. 

“Don’t,” he said. “I made dinner. Come sit, then we’ll go to bed. It’s been a long day.” 

Eliot had done this a lot, in the first years before Arielle has come along. He would start fights but refuse to finish them. He would refuse to hear Quentin’s side of anything difficult, and instead would just play caretaker, like it was his job to make sure Quentin ate and slept and didn’t go into the woods to off himself. 

This Eliot was so whole— pissed off, repressing all of his emotions— but whole and tall and unaltered by the monster that Quentin had watched taken over his body in his last months. 

Eliot turned, heading back to the fire to stir something in a big pot. Quentin followed, taking a small rock as a seat beside him. 

“Eliot.”

No response. Past Quentin hadn’t said anything here, so there was nothing for Eliot to react to. He served some stew into the red clay bowls they had traded honey for the week before, thrusting one at Quentin hard enough to make the mixture slosh around dangerously. Quentin stared down at it. Just vegetables, mostly potatoes. It was a few years before Eliot would get really good at hunting and snaring, but he had always tried to provide for them, from the beginning. 

He took a bite, chewing hard as if the stew were made of sawdust. 

Taking advantage of the temporary silence, Quentin tried to gather his thoughts. Was this the afterlife? An exact replay of a painful memory? Something told him no, it felt too solid, too real, even though it was obviously not Earth or the real Fillory. He wondered how long this would play out. 

They didn’t speak throughout dinner, just like Quentin remembered. Eliot took his bowl before he was finished, tossing them in a tub of water that had served as their sink. 

Quentin knew what came next, and his stomach settled into nerves as soon as Eliot started snuffing out the candles around their camp. 

Selfishly, stupidly, he wanted to play out this part. 

He went into the cottage to wait, sitting on the bed and picking at his cuticles. The only light came from the single strand of moonlight streaking across the bed. Eliot entered quietly a few minutes later, holding the last lit candle. The warm light cast a glow to his features, softening them. Quentin’s breath caught. 

Was it wrong? Was it wrong to want this part of the memory?

“Q,” Eliot said. “I… I don’t know if I can—“

Quentin knew exactly what had said next; he had hated himself for it then and hated himself for it now. 

“We don’t have to talk about it.”

Eliot nodded. Quickly, too quickly. Always ready to accept the easy way, as long as Quentin wanted it. 

He blew out the candle and set it on the small side table. Quentin tried to even out his breathing but it came in short bursts as Eliot pulled his own shirt over his head and crawled up the bed. He brushed Quentin’s hair back from his face and kissed him on all fours, mouth soft and searching. Full of want and words unsaid, words that would never be said now.

Quentin let himself be laid back, let Eliot pull his clothes off. They were wrong for the memory, the zipper of his hoodie different from the tie that had secured his tunic all those years ago. Quentin couldn’t change what he said in the past but he could guide Eliot’s hands now, make their night-chilled skin warm together as they touched in the dark. 

Eliot kissed his neck, his chest. Quentin kissed his neck when Eliot pulled back to rub his fingers together in the right tut and then his hand was slick. Quentin gasped when he entered him, conscious of nothing except the way it felt to be filled, and how Eliot’s hand pressed against his sternum. Grounding him. 

Eliot never made him want for long.

He fucked him slow and steady in the dark, his eyes shining from the moonlight. They had always been saps, preferring to be face to face with their eyes glued on each other even in the very beginning when it had all just been new and ‘fun.’ Eliot held one of his hands above his head, knowing that that Quentin needed to feel grounded, needed to be rooted to the earth. He kissed him on the mouth until it became too much, until all they could do was breath in each other as they reach the peak.

It was just like Quentin remembered. 

Eliot called him _gorgeous, amazing,_ Quentin called him _baby, baby, please—_

When they came, it was an afterthought. They were joined together, melted into the other. Eliot caught his breath against his neck and pulled out slowly and carefully. 

“Just don’t leave without telling me, ok? Can you promise me that?” Eliot asked, all the fight gone from his voice. 

Quentin nodded, smoothing a tendril of hair back from Eliot’s forehead where it had fallen. 

“Yeah, El. I can do that.”

His question of whether he could fall asleep here was answered quickly when Eliot’s arms folded around him and they were carried off by exhaustion. 

He was as surprised as anyone when he started to dream. 

The scene around him was painted in dull colors. Not black and white, just dingey, as if someone had mashed together all the colors on the watercolor palette. He walked silently through the halls of the physical kids cottage, his feet not making a sound. The house was quiet and dark, but there were traces of hard living. Clothes flung over the backs of chairs. Dirty dishes overflowed in the sink, some just set to the side with most of the food still intact. Two ashtrays sat on the coffee table, full to the brim. 

He went upstairs, looking for any signs of life. Alice’s and Margo’s rooms were shut tight. He moved on down the hall, where a strip of light cast itself from the sliver of Eliot’s open doorway. 

Before he got there, he heard a crash. 

He ran, silently loping down the hallway until he could slip through the crack. 

“Shit—“ he said, falling his knees where Eliot lay unconscious on the floor. He tried to take him by the shoulders and shake him but his hands couldn’t touch him, they only passed through.

“Help!” He yelled, but his voice was weak, muffled, like he was underwater. “Margo! Anyone!”

He turned back to Eliot. His hair was wild and unkempt, like it had been when he was the monster’s host. The area around him with littered with brown bottles, full to the brim with some kind of golden liquid. One had fallen to the ground, spilling its contents and soaking Eliot’s back. 

“What did you do, you stupid, _stupid_ —“

Just then, the door banged open, hitting the opposite wall. Margo came in, eyes fire and rage burning through her. 

“You absolute fucking idiot,” she snarled, kneeling next to Eliot. She couldn’t see Quentin, just took Eliot by the face and slapped him across the cheek, hard. 

Eliot woke up gasping, hands clawing at Margo. Alive. 

Quentin flopped onto his knees, relieved. 

Margo yelled, oblivious to Quentin’s presence. 

“I swear if you don’t kill yourself, I’ll do it for you.” She reached for the bottle that had spilled. “What the fuck is this? What did you take?”

Eliot shook his head, his face contorting in pain. Grief. Disbelief. Quentin swallowed hard. 

“Tell me or I’ll take you to get your stomach pumped the old fashioned way so help me—“

“Jesus Christ Margo,” Eliot said, his voice cracking. “Can you be sympathetic for one fucking second?”

She raised her eyebrows. “I’ve been sympathetic for three months, and you’re still on your bullshit. I think it’s time for wrath.”

Eliot brought his knees to his chest, holding his head. 

“Bambi…”

Margo thawed a little then, bringing her hand slowly up to stroke Eliot’s curls. His shoulders heaved, and he cried. Quentin stared; he had never heard Eliot cry before. 

Margo comforted him, moving closer and cradling his head. The golden liquid on the ground soaked through her blue pajama pants. 

“You have to tell me what you took, El.”

Eliot lifted his head. “It’s not drugs. Or booze.”

Margo pursed her lips. Quentin understood, the only alternative was so much worse. 

“Is it a spell?”

Eliot’s face contorted, holding back another sob. 

“It was. It didn’t work.”

“Oh my god.” Margo wrapped her arms around him, pulling his head towards her chest. “El, you can’t keep doing this. He’s gone.”

Eliot shook his head, pushing Margo away. He stood up on wobbling legs, weaving his way through the spell work littered on the ground. He picked up each bottle and carefully lined them up on his dresser. 

His voice was low. 

“You’ve already forgotten him. You all did your bonfire and you’re _forgetting him._ ”

Quentin shivered. 

Tears ran down Margo’s face. “You’re not ok, Eliot. We all care about you so much. You need help—“

Eliot whipped around. Even in the dingey lighting, his eyes were like fire and stone. 

“If you cared about me you would help me.”

Quentin watched in horror as Margo gazed helplessly at her best friend. For the first time, it looked like she didn’t know what to do. 

Eliot turned his back on her. The light changed, sparking and charging through the air until golden light surrounded them, catching on the frizzy ends of Eliot’s hair. His head snapped around, and his gaze landed on Quentin, like he could see him. Quentin staggered back—

“Eliot?”

Then the world turned upside down and black, and he landed back on his ass, hard. 

“Fuck,” he choked, the wind knocked from him. 

He didn’t wake up in his bed back in Fillory with Eliot warming him, instead he was back in the woods. And it wasn’t black, just dark. A new night. 

The soft sounds of a plucked guitar filled the air. 

He stood, stumbling towards the sound. The same song, the same tired singing voice. When he came to the cottage he saw Eliot. The same anger, the same frown, everything the same. 

“You came back?” 

Quentin’s shoulders sagged. This time he supplied the reply his past self had so carelessly gave. 

“Where else would I go?”

Eliot didn’t react much to that, as if he had already told himself the same thing over and over while Quentin had walked the woods. 

“You left without letting me know, how was I supposed to know what’s going on in your head?”

Quentin sighed. He said the words. They had no fight in them. 

“I don’t need to ask your permission to do anything.”

“You don’t _have_ to do anything, Quentin. You’d have to _want_ me to know.” Eliot flipped his hand. “Well, at least we both know what you want.”

Quentin swallowed, preparing himself to live this day again. Strangely, he felt… ready. 

It continued the same way. The same fight, the same food, the same sex. He played along with all of it without complaint, like a puppet on a string. He laid in bed later with Eliot’s arm around his waist, eyes plastered open. The same cool light of the moon illuminated the room, and Eliot’s nose brushed the back of his neck. 

What would tomorrow bring?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin weighs his limited options. Eliot receives and ignores good advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kind reception to my first chapter! This story has taken on a mind of its own, so I changed the chapter count. But have no fear, I have plans in the works.

Quentin didn’t always dream, but when he did, it was of Eliot. 

Eliot sat it his bedroom in the cottage, one knee drawn up to his chest as he flipped through a book. Quentin recognized it immediately;  _ The Girl Who Told Time,  _ one of his paperback copies. Never his favorite in the series. Still, he knew that copy in particular contained a lot of his commentary in the margins. Notes like  _ typo or reference?  _ And  _ check for continuity in WitW.  _

Eliot turned another page. He smiled. Quentin leaned against the doorframe, enjoying the view. He should feel embarrassed, but how could he be when his old obsessions made Eliot smile? 

This dream wasn’t as eventful as the first, but that was ok. It was good to see Eliot doing something that wasn’t nearly choking on his own tongue. 

“Eliot?” Margo called from downstairs. “I got Chinese food. Used the portal to go to Manhattan and everything.”

Eliot didn’t look up from his book. “Wouldn’t it be better to just make a portal to China?”

“Shut up and be grateful.”

Eliot smirked and placed a ratty bookmark between the pages, standing and sticking it between his mattress and the box spring. He tucked his overlong hair behind his ears and took a glance at the mirror above his dresser, frowning. He was pale and deep purple bags lined his eyes– Quentin wished he could reach out, just touch his shoulder– 

Eliot looked away from his reflection, his hands coming up instead to count the bottles lining his dresser. They were the same brown bottles from his last dream, but empty now. Eliot counted under his breath, his hands trembling only slightly. 

“Eliot!” Margo called, her voice now edged with concern. 

“I’m coming,” Eliot returned, just loud enough for Margo to hear him, but he didn’t move. 

Stupidly, uselessly, Quentin tried. 

“El,” he said, voice barely louder than a whisper. “Whatever this is, stop. Go see Margo and finish school or fucking–  _ teach  _ school or whatever it is you’re qualified to do now.”

Eliot didn’t look up. 

“Or go back to Fillory?” Quentin’s voice took on the desperate edge of a plea. “They need you–you can still be a King–”

“Q,” Eliot whispered. 

Quentin stopped talking, the dreamscape around him bucking as he came close to waking up. 

“Shit, not yet–” Quentin pleaded,  _ begged,  _ whatever unseen force controlled this. 

The scene began to fade. Quentin reached out, trying to brush his fingers over Eliot’s face but meeting nothing except air, air, and then–

_ Thump. _

He landed. The sounds and smells of the forest at dusk filled his senses. He got up, brushing off his jeans and shuffling slowly towards the path, towards the soft guitar music and back to the memory. 

The day played out the same way each time. Fight, eat, fuck, sleep. He tried everything he could to delay it. Once, he refused to give up his dinner bowl, then refused to enter the cottage until long after Eliot had– but the result was the same each time. Time refused to bend for him, it would continue to march on without his participation or not. 

Most of the time, he played along. 

“I’m not the one running.  _ You  _ did that,” Eliot snapped, his voice always raspy with hurt. 

Quentin had lost count of the number of times he had gone through this. He tried to keep a tally by marking his arm with a pencil in the cottage, but when he woke up in the forest the mark was gone. 

“I didn’t run, I tried to say that I–”

Eliot never let him finish, always held a hand up. Conversation over. After what felt like the tenth time, Quentin tried to remember how he was going to finish the sentence. He couldn’t, try as he might. Maybe he never knew.

Sometimes, he didn’t say anything. 

Eliot talked and aimed his barbs at him with all the bravado of a Broadway actor, and Quentin gave him nothing. No response, no eye contact, nothing. 

Once in a while, he tried different responses. 

“You came back?” Eliot asked again, like clockwork.

Quentin shrugged, smiling. 

“I don’t know, I realized I couldn’t cook for shit so where would I be without you?”

This Eliot never laughed, never cracked a smile, but maybe the real Eliot would have. Maybe they could have avoided a lot of conflict if Quentin could have just  _ lightened up a little _ . 

“Don’t look at me like that. Like you didn’t mean it,” Eliot said. 

The twentieth time through Quentin noticed the tear tracks on his face. 

“I didn’t mean it. Whatever stupid shit I said, I didn’t mean it.” Quentin threw his hands up in the air. “Why couldn’t you believe that? Why couldn’t you see that I was hurting? I needed you to understand.”

Eliot had no response. 

His best modifications came after dark, in the cool closeness of their little house. 

He couldn’t change the way they had had sex, couldn’t flip Eliot on his back and put his mouth on him exactly where he wanted because he hadn’t done that in this memory. They couldn’t have relieved, pained  _ thank god the monster inside of you didn’t kill you  _ sex. Only make-up sex. He could only take what Eliot gave.

But he could change what  _ he  _ had said. 

Once, while Eliot kissed his neck:

“I wanted this to last forever.”

Another night, when Eliot helped him out of his clothes:

“You were everything to me.”

And finally, when they came together, the relief to be in his arms punched right out of him:

“Eliot, Eliot, El, Eliot,  _ Eliot– _ ”

He said his name. Just because it felt good. 

He laid in Eliot’s arms that night, waiting for sleep to take him– waiting for it all to start over again. Eliot’s nose was soft on the back of his neck. He wasn’t quite asleep yet, and he traced his lips over Quentin’s hairline. Quentin hadn’t noticed this part before. It couldn’t be new– maybe Quentin had just been asleep before and hadn’t been  _ able _ to notice. 

“Q.” Eliot said, his voice softer, deeper, somehow...

Sleep took Quentin, the memory dragging him under. 

That night, he dreamed. 

Even though it was dingy and gray, his walk through the halls of the cottage seemed more real than the tiles of the mosaic back in the memory loop. The lush green of the trees that lined their house couldn’t compare to the reality of the ratty couch in the living room. 

It was real because it was horrible. It was real because Eliot had been crying again.

He and Margo laid sprawled on her bed. Eliot’s head rested in her lap. A line of brown bottles sat on the floor, full to the brim with the same golden liquid as before. There were empty spots in the line, along with broken glass and spilled liquid.

Margo took a drag off of something that looked hand-rolled and passed it to Eliot. He took it, raising his eyebrows. 

“How naughty.”

She rolled her eyes. “Only because you just got off of your pain meds.”

Eliot inhaled deeply, holding it in until his shoulders relaxed. 

“Doctors are demons and you are my angel,” he said, passing it back to her. 

Margo didn’t laugh. She took the joint from Eliot’s outstretched hand and set it in an ashtray. Quentin noticed she wore one of her gowns from Fillory, as if she were a tired mother who just got home from work. It was bunched and wrinkled around her legs. 

She stroked her fingers through Eliot’s hair.

“Thank you for asking me to help you with the spell tonight,” she said carefully, as if her words were defusing a bomb. “I’m sorry it didn’t work.”

Eliot pursed his lips. “No you’re not.”

She took his head in her hands, turning him to face her. 

“Can you blame me?”

He brushed her off, sitting up. The collar of his t-shirt was stretched and misshapen, revealing a line of pale skin from his throat to chest. Quentin saw bruises there. 

Eliot quickly adjusted his shirt, and they were gone. 

“I don’t blame you for anything,” he said. “The spell isn’t dangerous. It isn’t even powerful.”

Margo licked her lips, watching him. “This stuff is serious, El. One minute you’re just watching a movie in your head and the next you could just be– stuck. Wandering through your own brain while your body…”

“Rots from the inside out?”

“Eliot.” 

Eliot reached for the joint, taking another quick hit. 

“It’s not what you think,” he explained quietly, the usual sarcastic lilt to his voice gone and replaced with a heartbreaking sincerity. “The spell drops me off in the same place every time. And every time I go to sleep I wake up here.”

Margo’s jaw was tense. She had always been hard, unyielding, but Quentin saw the pain that lurked in her gaze. 

“He was my friend too.”

Eliot sat up, turning to face her.

“I know that. I’m doing this for all of us.”

Margo’s eyes widened, as if she saw something. Quentin jumped, looking around, but she hadn’t seen him. She slid up on her knees, crawling to Eliot and grasping his face. He looked away, but she forced him to meet her eye. 

“Eliot.” Her nostrils flared. “That is not an option. A no-go. If you do that–”

“Then what?” he snapped. “What could happen that hasn’t already happened to us?”

“There are worse things than death,” she said, giving him a little shake. “You know that. Or you used to.”

Eliot closed his eyes, reaching up to grip her wrist. He squeezed once, then drew her hand away from his face, placing it back in her lap. 

“I never thanked you, Bambi,” he said. “For stabbing me in the stomach.”

“El–”

“No.” He shook his head. “Don’t let me off the hook. I never thanked you.”

She frowned, her eyes wet. “You don’t have to thank me. You just have to– Eliot, you have to take care of yourself.”

He nodded fast, taking her face between his hands this time. “I know, I know. I’m going to do that. Just–”

He stopped, stuttered. He leaned in, kissing her forehead and pulling her against his chest. She wrapped her arms around him. 

“Margo,” he said into her hair. “It worked a little.”

She pulled back, brow furrowed. 

“Fucking explain.”

Eliot smiled, letting his hand slip from her hair to her cheek. “Just let me try one more time.”

The scene began to fade. Quentin panicked. 

“Not yet.” His voice was muffled again, and unheard. “Notyet _ notyet–” _

He reached a hand out, but the scene had already begun to fade. Eliot stroked Margo’s face with his thumb, and then Eliot was gone. His stomach swooped, and then he was flat on his back in the forest. The damp earth seeped through his shirt. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. 

Time for a new day. 

It was usually about an hour walk from where the universe dropped Quentin in the forest to the mosaic– not that he had any way of keeping time– but there was something about an hour that had a physical feeling. A completeness. 

Now, time stretched. Curved. Every step seemed to be a step forward and a step back. He looked up at the moon through the canopy, and the sky was dark like night. He looked back a moment later and it was streaked with pink and grey like early evening. Familiar trees lined the path. Then they weren’t familiar. 

_ He  _ felt different. Less solid. 

Then there were the sounds. 

Creaking, high pitched metal-on-metal sounds vibrated through the air, getting closer and closer. Quentin whipped around, half-expecting the underworld train to materialize in the middle of the forest and plow into him. The trees rustled in the wind and animals prepared for nightfall, unaffected by the building noise. 

_ Faster,  _ he thought,  _ God faster.  _ His limbs were tight. His feet sunk into the earth. Not enough resistance to push off the ground. He whipped around, trying to find the path, but his feet were jello and his legs void of the strength he needed. The familiar forest turned cold and still, the only sound his breath dragging ragged from in and out of his lungs– 

And then a voice. A whisper. 

_ Youareindoubtyouareindoubtyourareindoubtyouarein–  _

He ran. 

Thankfully, his eyes chose that moment to focus again, and his feet found purchase against the soggy ground. The faster he ran, the clearer the forest became. He could see the dusky sky, the animals in the trees, the outline of the cottage up ahead– Eliot would be playing the guitar and they would fight. They would fight and then they would fall asleep and they would do it all over again a million times if they had to because Quentin was not ready, he was not ready, he was  _ not ready–  _

He stopped. The world righted itself. Up ahead, the cottage stood, clear as day. 

“You are in doubt. You must  _ stop _ being in doubt.”

The train conductor stood on the path. His path  _ home _ . 

Quentin swallowed. 

“Honestly,” he said quietly. “I haven’t really had much time for anything lately, let alone doubt.”

The conductor cocked his head. He wasn’t familiar. A generic face, maybe someone he had seen in passing one day long ago at Columbia or at Brakebills. Not anyone that should be his own personal nightmare. 

“I’m not.” Quentin stopped. Cleared his throat. “I’m not coming with you.”

No response. The conductor didn’t blink. 

“I like it here,” Quentin said quickly, words falling into each other like dominos. “I’m fine with this being my afterlife, or whatever. I’m not picky, and you don’t have to worry about me. There must be better people who deserve this kind of personal attention.”

Silence. Stillness. 

“So, we’re good.” Quentin started to back up, feeling for any knots in the path that could trip him up. If he could go into the forest, lose the conductor, he’s sure he could find his way back to the mosaic—

One step. Two step.

In a flash and quiet as a whisper, the conductor was there, two inches from Quentin’s face. 

“Jesus—“

“You are in doubt.” The words had no inflection change, but Quentin could feel them in his bones, rattling as if the conductor was shaking him. “You must  _ stop  _ being in doubt.”

Quentin froze. The conductor’s eyes eyes were dark, almost black, like staring into the void. 

He opened his mouth. 

“You are in—“

And froze. 

The conductor’s jaw hung open, mid-word. The shine left his eyes, as if he were frozen, stuck. 

Quentin raised a tentative hand and waved it in front of his face. No response, not a flick of life. 

Slowly, the world came back to itself. 

Trees started to sway and move in the wind again, but it was as if someone had pressed the fast forward button on time. Flowers bloomed for the moon and then died as the sun started to rise. Birds sang in double time, their songs reduced to high-pitched squeaks. The sun circled overhead and then it was dusk, melting like ice cream in August into the pitch black night. 

Quentin’s body surged with energy, as if he had the best night of sleep of his life, and then dimmed just as quickly. 

“Fuck.” Exhaustion overtook him, and his legs gave out.  _ “Fuck.” _

He hit the ground, arms splayed beside him, and sleep took him. Ready or not. 

Soon, he was dreaming. 

This time, he was already in Eliot’s room, sitting against the doorframe. Eliot was upright and conscious with his back to him, picking up brown bottles from the floor and setting them on the dresser. A few had shattered, and shards of glass littered the floor at his bare feet. 

Quentin’s chest tightened. 

“Eliot.”

A useless plea. This Eliot couldn’t hear him. He whispered under his breath, counting the bottles. His fingers brushed the open tops. They were smeared with shimmering, golden liquid. Another spell gone awry. It didn’t look like Margo had been here to pick up the pieces this time. 

Eliot’s hair fell past his shoulders now. His clothes hung away from his frame and when he turned Quentin saw the dark circles ringing his eyes. Other bottles littered the room; vodka mostly. Something clear and easy that would get Eliot where he needed to be, along with an almost empty carton of cigarettes on his night table.

Eliot walked gingerly through the glass to retrieve two new bottles from a cardboard box, setting them on the dresser in a straight line with the others. He took a shaking breath, squaring his shoulders and lifting his hands. 

Quentin loved Eliot’s hands. Loved them when they worked through a new spell, sure and wide. Loved them when he had held an axe and chopped wood and lifted heavy pots and handed him tiles to help finish their quest. Loved the way they splayed over Quentin’s ribcage and carded through his hair. Eliot had strength in his hands, always had. 

Now, they shook. 

For some unknown reason, in that moment Quentin knew. He  _ knew _ . He knew nothing else but that Eliot needed to finish this spell. There was nothing more important in this moment that Eliot finishing and succeeding in this spell. 

Quentin stood, walking towards him. His feet made no sound.

He placed a hand on Eliot’s shoulder. His hand made contact, feeling warm skin for the first time since he had died. Eliot gasped. He looked around, but his eyes never focused. He couldn’t see him. Quentin deflated.

But then:

“Q,” Eliot said, his voice low and hoarse. “One more. Just one more try.”

He closed his eyes. 

Quentin had always loved watching Eliot cast, the blur and flash of his hand gestures something regal. His hands moved quickly now, opening and closing like a door on swinging hinges. Open, close, open, close– 

Eliot began to speak. Sumerian, maybe, something old. Ancient words had always felt soft to Quentin, the sounds round and smooth like rocks beaten by the sea. 

Open, close. 

He squeezed Eliot’s shoulder. Eliot shuddered, shivered, but kept going. 

Open, close, open, close.

Sensation, bright and sharp, shot through Quentin’s stomach. Breath, inflating his frozen lungs. Blood coursed through him, whistling like the wind. His heart thudded in his chest. It was life. He had forgotten. 

How had he forgotten what it felt like to be alive?

“Eliot.”

Eliot tensed under his hand and threw his head back, gasping. In the mirror, Quentin could see that Eliot’s eyes had turned a stunning, liquid gold. He blinked. 

And was back on the forest floor, covered in leaves. 

He groaned, sitting up. The leaves were soggy and old, as if there had been a rainstorm. He stood, brushing off his pants. He found his balance and set off down the path. After the events of the last hours he would be happy to have a normal day of fighting with Eliot and falling asleep. 

He made his way up to the cottage, feeling tired and shaken down to his bones. He listened for the tell-tale plucking of the guitar and Eliot’s soft voice, but they didn’t come. He sped up, nerves blossoming in his stomach. 

What if it was gone? What if the conductor had changed something, and the memory wouldn’t be there anymore? 

As soon as his feet hit the cobblestone path he was running. The timing was off, the trees seemed off, he was late, he’d missed it, he’d broken everything,  _ ruined  _ his own afterlife– 

“Eliot! Where are– Eliot!”

He stopped. The cottage was there. The half-finished mosaic was there. Eliot’s stew bubbled away in the pot above the roaring fire. And– 

Eliot was there. 

“Eliot–”

No guitar. He stood tall instead of sitting on the little chair. Instead of anger and bitterness, he wore an expression of complete and total astonishment. Eyes wide, jaw dropped. 

Quentin waited. He waited for Eliot’s face to settle into anger. For the first dig. 

“Q,” Eliot said instead, taking a step forward. “Q is it really–”

He stopped, mouth still open. 

“It’s me, El.” Because what else could he say? “Is it you?”

The eyes were so familiar.  _ His  _ Eliot’s eyes. He blinked, and then he nodded.

Quentin moved, his feet heavy and as disbelieving as his brain, and launched himself at Eliot, throwing his arms around his neck and pressing close. Eliot’s arms circled around him, pressing his nose to Quentin’s hair and inhaling. Quentin slid his hands down and felt him: the back of his neck where his hair curled, the knobs of his spine, the dip of his shoulder. He held his breath and tried to memorize how his arms felt around his ribcage, tight and final as if to say—

_ This is it.  _

Eliot’s mouth moved against his hair. 

“Q.” 

It was a breath. An inhalation and an exhalation all at once. Explanations would have to come later. Eliot was here and whole and– 

“I found you,” Eliot said, his fingers grasping Quentin’s sweatshirt. “I  _ fucking  _ found you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin contemplates architecture. Eliot makes several confessions.

“Q–”

The cottage door slammed open, hitting the inside wall where in ten years Eliot would build a bookshelf for him. Quentin remembered that bookshelf, with its straight shelves carved from a tree they felled with their own hands, filled with books from Earth that they would salvage over the years. Eliot had spent over a week making sure it would hold. 

A project, he had said. Something to keep them busy. As if they didn’t have a whole quest to do that. 

“Here– c’mere–”

Quentin snapped back to the present. Back to the here and now and in the here and now Eliot touched his face. Palmed the sides of his waist. Kissed him. 

“El–  _ Eliot–” _

Eliot backed him up against the wall where the bookshelf would one day stand, dipping down once again to fit their lips together. He had always been  _ just a hair  _ too tall for this, the height difference between them just enough to make kissing standing up a bit of a trial. Quentin didn’t mind now. It was desperate and searching, clinging, as if they could bring the other to their level if they just tried hard enough. 

_ I’m alive in here.  _

Quentin shivered as Eliot broke away from his mouth to kiss his cheek, down his jaw. Quentin caught his breath, leaning against the wall and petting Eliot’s hair back from his face. 

“You cut your hair,” Eliot said as he straightened, pressing another kiss to the side of Quentin's mouth. “I didn’t get to see it– only when I–”

_ Fifty years, who gets proof of concept like that? _

Quentin slid his hands down to grip the sides of Eliot’s shirt, pulling him closer. He wanted a good look at him, but the perpetual dusk made it difficult. He squinted. 

Eliot’s jaw twitched, and Quentin could hear it. Could hear the quip Eliot would make had this been a normal day– _ Take a picture baby, it’ll last longer and it might be worth something someday  _ or  _ I’m not sure where I’m going to get you glasses in town so you better stop squinting now–  _ but the look on his face now was too raw for flirting. 

Quentin swallowed. He still looked like the Eliot from the memory, down to the same clothes and hair and age, but this wasn’t that Eliot, a shadow of a memory inside the nightmare of Quentin’s afterlife. This was the Eliot that Quentin had fought for, suffered for– 

Died for. 

“Fuck– Eliot–”

The man in question kissed him again, silencing whatever heartbreaking bullshit he was about to say. Quentin was grateful. This was a far better use for their time. 

Eliot pressed against him, blindly twisting his fingers in a familiar tut. Quentin suddenly felt feather light, and Eliot palmed at his thighs, his ass, picking him up and wrapping his legs around his hips.  _ This  _ was better. It solved the height conundrum and now Quentin could get both his hands in Eliot’s hair and  _ kiss him _ as if they hadn’t been kissing for the past ten minutes. 

_ We should talk,  _ Quentin thought, not for the first time since Eliot had pulled away from their hug only to kiss him square on the mouth and then lead him inside the cottage.  _ Their  _ cottage. Questions of how and why and  _ what the fuck  _ had dissipated. 

But Eliot was carrying him to the bed now, and depositing him on top of the covers only to crawl over him and kiss him some more. Quentin kept his legs tight around him, letting Eliot feel how much he wanted this because this?  _ This  _ was as familiar as breathing here. How much had they fought and fucked in that second year before Arielle had come into their lives? 

“Do you want–” Eliot gasped as they rocked their hips together, breathing each other in. “Baby, what do you want me to do to you?”

The endearment sent a pang through Quentin’s chest.

“This is good, just like this,” Quentin said, reaching between them to run a hand down Eliot’s chest, his stomach, down to feel the shape of him through the loose pants he wore. “Only, let’s–”

“Loud and clear,” Eliot said, nodding. He reached between them, helping Quentin undo and push his pants down his hips, doing the same with his own before taking them both in hand. 

“El,” Quentin breathed, rocking his hips up into Eliot’s grip. 

Eliot laughed, a delightful, disheveled sound, dropping his head down to rest at Quentin’s shoulder. 

It was as if every sensation had been dialed up past a hundred. Gone was the dreamy stillness of the memory, the feeling of being out of control and spinning through time and space. This was real. Quentin felt every move of Eliot’s hand, every breath against his skin. Eliot grabbed at his clothes, getting his sweatshirt half off before pulling his collar aside to kiss his collarbone, his chest. Quentin’s hands were free to untie Eliot’s tunic and get his hands on his skin, drawn over his ribs and pressed against his beating heart. 

It was a lot, and not enough, and somehow  _ too much,  _ all at once. It was hard to know what to say, so Quentin settled for the simplest option. 

“Eliot–” Eliot shuddered against him. “El,  _ El–” _

Quentin gasped, and it was like a tremendous release. He sobbed into Eliot’s shoulder, hitching his leg around his hip and rolling into his grip when Eliot came too, with a sigh against Quentin’s neck. 

It was as if no time had passed at all. 

After, they laid together, the dusky light from the outside barely making it through the old and wavy window panes. Eliot stroked his hair, his face, his neck. Cleaned his clothes with an absent minded twist of his fingers. His hands were firm but gentle, as if he were checking him for loose parts. Ghost parts. 

Quentin caught one, lacing their fingers together. 

“El?”

Eliot’s mouth twitched in his frown.

“Hm?”

“Did you…” Quentin pressed a kiss to his knuckles, the words thick in his throat. “Are you dead?”

Eliot bit his lip, rolling into his back. He rested their joined hands on his chest. The last ray of evening sun past through the room, casting a shadow over Eliot’s face. 

“I don’t think so,” he said, his voice low and soft. “Chances are, I’m in some kind of coma. Margo will find me.”

“I’m sure she’ll love that.”

Eliot turned again to face him, heartbreak written on his face. “I can’t think about Margo right now.”

Outside, a cricket started its nighttime chirping. The wind kicked up, whistling through the trees. 

“What can you think about?”

Eliot laughed, that fake little ah-hah he always did when he was stalling. 

“You.” He stroked down Quentin’s face once more, playing with the collar of his t-shirt. “Your hair really is throwing me off right now.” He laughed. “I missed you so much.”

Quentin swallowed the lump in his throat. Eliot here looked hale and hearty, but the Eliot he had seen in his dreams had been thin and desperate, taking alcohol like vitamins. _. _

_ We should talk,  _ Quentin’s brain supplied for him once more. But Quentin doesn’t  _ want  _ that, he doesn’t want the long exposition conversation where Eliot tells him how long he’s been dead and how Alice is coping. Tells him about the spell he did and Quentin gives him a story about a train going off its tracks. He can hear it in his head, the way it would stifle them, the way it would lessen the time that they have been given and bring them back to earth. 

The last thing Quentin wanted was to feel grounded right now. 

“You saw,” he said instead, skipping ahead, skipping the backstory. “You were in the memory?”

Eliot nodded. “You saw the fight too? The one we had after our first year here?”

Quentin nodded too. “Yeah. I came back after storming off and you were so–”

Eliot laughed. “Pissed. So pissed. I remember it now. You were acting like I was throwing all these insults at you, and it didn’t matter what I said. Like I was talking to a–”

He stopped. 

“A ghost?” Quentin supplied quietly. 

Eliot nodded. “But I knew you were here somewhere. Really here, I mean.”

Quentin didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t know how to say that he had been willing to serve his entire afterlife in the memory loop if it meant that he would get to be with Eliot everyday. If it meant he could occasionally see him in his dreams. 

Eliot shook his head, winning or losing some kind of argument with himself. Swallowed. Steeled himself. Quentin waited. 

“There’s was something else, Q.” He met Quentin’s eyes again, stroking down his hair to the back of his neck. “Everything you said– I mean, that day. You got the letter you sent to Margo and I bit that  _ fucking  _ peach.”

“I know.”

The point is–” Eliot interrupted. “You said some things, and then I said some things, and you were right. In every way and I–”

“Eliot,” Quentin shook his head, “You don’t have to– just because we’re here–”

“Stop.” Eliot’s voice was low and broken. “ _ Stop  _ acting like my bullshit ever meant anything.”

Eliot sat up, rubbing his hands over his face. He drew his knees up to his chest. God, but he was beautiful, especially in the new moonlight flowing through the window. Especially with the sounds of the forest going to sleep all around them, the most beautiful of their memories racing through their heads. 

Quentin sat up beside him, tracing circles on Eliot’s back, letting old insecurities fade in favor of  _ I’m dead, what does it matter if I get to be happy now? _

“Sorry,” Quentin whispered. “Keep going. Keep talking.”

Eliot smiled as Quentin leaned his head against Eliot’s shoulder, waiting. 

“I love you,” Eliot said. Quentin let his eyes fall closed. “I loved you. I wanted to spend another lifetime with you, but I was so scared. I promised myself that if I ever shook off the monster I wouldn’t be afraid again, and that I would tell you.”

Quentin nodded against his back. “I remember. In the park, I mean. You said something about fifty years.”

“I wanted to say a million other things, but there was no time–”

Eliot kept talking, kept saying the words that he hadn’t been able to in Quentin’s lifetime. Quentin opted to listen, to savor. 

Death had robbed them of this conversation, but here in some bizarre time loop, they had their resolution. It should be more momentous, more earth shattering. He waited for the world to turn, to shift, to realize that their unfinished business was done and that Quentin could be thrown into the afterlife with no regrets now and that Eliot could be pitched back to earth, psychological trauma resolved. 

He waited. Braced himself.

Nothing happened. 

“Saying something right about now would be wise, before my skin turns inside out. Or like, maybe we could re-enact the fight again, and I’ll get pissed off enough to take it all back.”

Quentin laughed, lifting his face and meeting Eliot’s eyes. He smiled when he saw Quentin, and wasn’t that the best feeling in the world?

“Sorry,” he said, a little edge fraying the playfulness of his tone. “I should be nicer.”

Quentin stroked Eliot’s hair back from his face. Thumbed over the two day’s worth of stubble that grew there. 

“You could be, but why start now?”

Another desperate giggle. “Because you’re dead. And I might be too.”

“What happened to the coma?”

“I try not to do things half-way.”

Quentin snorted, flopping back onto the bed and pulling Eliot with him. 

“I love you too.” Quentin laughed, pressing his forehead against Eliot’s chest. “You know that, right? I love you so much.”

Eliot kissed his hair. “Yeah, I know.”

Quentin squeezed his eyes shut, fisted his hand in Eliot’s shirt. 

“When I love someone, I really prefer it when they  _ don’t _ do weird spells and put themselves into magical comas for me.”

“Yeah?” Eliot sighed, shivering. “If we’re going to play that game, then I don’t want people I love to make mortal sacrifices.”

Quentin eased out of Eliot’s arms, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. When Teddy had been a teenager one of the beams had rotted and split. They had taken turns holding the ladder and securing the new beam, bickering in tandem about Eliot’s bad knee and Quentin’s stiff shoulder. Age had caught up with them sooner than they had thought. Another fight–a quiet one. Eliot never wanted to be a parent who fought in front of the kids. 

“What do you think will happen when we fall asleep?” Eliot asked, all the fight gone from his voice. 

Quentin took his hand. 

“I don’t know. This is my first time in a hijacked memory loop.”

Eliot laughed, hooking an ankle over Quentin’s. “Lucky for you, I’m highly adaptable.”

They tried. They didn’t talk about it, but Quentin knew they were both trying,  _ trying  _ not to fall asleep. They gravitated closer again, tucking themselves together wherever they fit, ready and waiting. Night fell hard and, spell or no, sleep took them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the kind feedback this fic has received so far! I always love to hear what you think.


End file.
